Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, Who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is no longer heard. It is a tale told by an idiot, complete with sound an...
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